


Richie Remembers

by podcastalien



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Comedian Richie Tozier, M/M, Reunion, adult reddie, driver Eddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 16:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/podcastalien/pseuds/podcastalien
Summary: Richie can’t shake the feeling that something has always been wrong about his life as a lonely comedian. Then he meets a limo driver he knows he knows.





	Richie Remembers

Ask anyone on the street in the state of California and they’ll tell you that Richie Tozier is a  _ funnyman _ . 

He is the voice of the citizen’s frustrating crawl to work on the freeway early in the morning, cracking jabs that make people smile. He is the special guest on a sitcom that pops in for one wacky episode that watchers will point to and say, “ _ Hey I know him! _ ” 

He is the comedy channel’s favorite late night stand up comedian that will drop in with a new special with jokes too crude to tell on air. 

They say comedy is the lowest form of art and Richie Tozier sure is in the gutter, because Richie Tozier is a  _ funnyman _ . 

 

Ask anyone who works with Richie Tozier closely and they’ll tell you that Richie Tozier is a  _ funny man _ . His manager will tell you that the funniest thing about his number one client is far from his jokes. The funniest things about Richie Tozier are the things his biggest fans never get to see. Richie Tozier has funny habits.

 

For one, he worries a whole lot. His hands shake not during his shows, but after, when exhaustion takes over and he doesn’t have the energy to trick himself. When he doesn’t have anything in his system just yet. 

For a guy whose whole career is built on a slap happy, _I_ _don’t give a shit persona,_ he found himself in a lot of cold sweats before shows, panicked breaths in the middle of the night. 

It was never patterned enough to track or prevent, much to the disdain of his management. He doesn’t have stage fright. He didn’t have to worry about finances. He could blow half of his money in one night and be able to live the rest of his life modestly. Even if he couldn’t, he could always earn more. 

That isn’t to say he didn’t live recklessly, he most certainly did. Ask his dealer, or his accountant or the scores of people he slept with. 

Richie Tozier has always known more than what was good for him as a guy paid to tell jokes. Whatever he knew, he tried to chase away with bottles and warm bodies he didn’t know the names of. 

Normal celebrity behavior to most, but if you got close enough, you could see the edge of something in those dark blue eyes, something rabid, something running. 

Richie Tozier has been running from,  _ well he didn’t know what from _ , since he was maybe 18. 

 

That same running that caused him to get drunk off his ass  _ before _ his show tonight.

 

He woke up in his luxury hotel room with a ringing in his head and cold, clammy hands. The pit of his stomach told him today was an important day but he couldn’t remember the reason why. He wanted to forget before he could remember. 

 

Now, he sits on a stool at a bar in the heart of New York City, his biggest stop on tour so far, and lets his phone ring. 

Then ring again. 

 

“ _ Hey _ !” He shouts over to the bartender. He holds his glass loosely in his hand, “More pretty please,” he smiles.

 

“Dude,” the bartender says, “You’ve been here since 11 am and it’s too early in my night to have you blackout in here. You can stay but I’m not giving you any more.” He continues wiping the glasses.

 

Richie Tozier stands from his stool and throws a finger up, he drapes his elbow on the counter for support. “You just lost a paying customer, and a celebrity at that!” 

 

The bartender scoffs at him, “Everyone’s a celebrity when they’re fucked up man.”

 

Richie dizzly protests, “Bullshit!” He slurs and slams his fist on the counter. “Look at this!” He pulls out his ringing phone, “Look who’s calling me right now!” 

The man leans in to read the contact name:  _ Ted Green _

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”

Richie nods. 

“It’s my manager! He’s calling me because I’m supposed to be on stage right now so, ha. Take that!” He smugly smiles in that  _ I told you so way _ .

 

“Then why the hell are you in my bar?”

 

The smile goes limp on his face. He drops a hundred on the table and almost misses. 

“Keep the change,” he mumbles as he stumbles out of the doors.

 

The cold air hits him in a way he wish he could say was refreshing. Across town somewhere his manager was surely having an aneurysm. He swallows thickly and opens what he certainly hopes is the celebrity version of Uber on his phone.

 

10 minutes later he’s upchucking all over the city sidewalk and praying no one recognizes him and snaps a picture. 

A black limo pulls up next to him on the curb. He has the vague feeling that it’s for him, but he can’t bring himself to move to get to the door. 

It doesn’t seem to matter though as now he can see fine, leather shoes on the ground where he’s looking, and then sees his own vomit all over them.

 

He wakes up, well, he can’t tell how much, later in what appears to be the back of a very nice car his head is reeling and pounding. But he doesn’t feel like he’s going to puke anymore. 

He lets out a long achy, groan as he stretches.

 

“Oh Jesus, you’re up.” He hears a voice say, worried sounding, but not unpleasant.

“If you’re going to throw up, _please_ _please_ tell me so I can pull over.”

 

Richie laughs a little at the sheer concern this person seems to have, “I think I’m okay for now.” 

 

“Well don’t think me silly for asking, you ruined my shoes back there.”

He lets himself try to piece the memories together for a moment. 

_ Bar, sidewalk, phone, _

_ “ _ Oh shit, _ ”  _ he says aloud, without really meaning to. 

“Listen,” he says with sudden guilt and seriousness, “I can pay you back for the shoes I-“ 

“Don’t worry,” he cuts in, “Your manager called me when he saw you’d called one of our cars and I told him about what happened. I don’t really care about the shoes. It’s just that puke grosses me out.” 

 

Richie feels a momentary pang of something familiar at that sentiment, he lets it pass. “God. He’s going to fucking kick my ass.”

 

The driver giggles in a way that makes Richie forget about his problem, 

“Honestly, I can imagine you kind of deserve it.” 

 

“Well,” he pulls at his long hair, “I wish I could tell you you’re wrong.” He stares out the window, watching the people pass on the street. It had to be very late in the evening now. 

 

“Where are you taking me anyway?” 

There’s a bit of a pause. 

“Well, I was really supposed to pass you off to your manager at the theatre, according to him.” He waits before continuing, 

“But you kept begging me not to. And I didn’t want to be responsible for your murder. He sounded really pissed. I told him you wanted me to drive you around. It seemed alright with that, he told me you missed your show anyway, so I’ve just been driving us around.” 

 

If Richie was honest, he thinks that should freak him out. A stranger just driving him around, this guy could be a celebrity serial killer posing as a driver, or just a weirdo with a cool job.

He  _ should  _ feel that way, but he can’t for whatever reason. Nothing unsettled him the way should about this guy. Even through Richie’s hazy headache, the man’s voice and what he caught of his big eyes in the rear view mirror, they just seemed comfortable, familiar.

He clears his throat and puts on his best knight voice he sometimes did on the radio, “Well thank you very much, to whom do I owe my life for saving my ass?” 

 

The man laughs and rolls his eyes, “Eddie Kaspbrak.”

And Richie feels that same pang again, intensely this time, like being punched in the gut.

“Pull over,” he manages to choke out. 

 

He thrusts the door open and gags, pulling up more than what he thought he had in his stomach. It earns him some pissed off honks since he’s on the street side. He puts his hands on his knees and can hear the driver’s door open. He feels a hand on his shoulder. 

“Shit,” he hears the man say and then there's a puffing sound.

Richie stands again and tries to slow his breaths, a technique he learned in the one session of therapy Ted had made him go to. 

“It’s okay,” he coughs, “Just a little hung over, that’s all,” he lies. The sound of the puffing made him even more queasy, though he doesn’t have anything left in his stomach to throw up anymore. 

 

“Okay, I’m all good now,” he says, trying to sound reassuring for the other man’s sake, and gets back into the car.

 

“You can,”  _ trigger _ ,  _ puff _ , “Sit in the front ya know.” 

 

Richie nods and opens the passenger door as Eddie gets back in the limo as well. 

 

There’s a strange and heavy silence. Richie is finally able to catch the appearance of the man. He’s shorter than him by quite a bit, with blond curls and glasses. He’s wearing a practical suit, but gaudy ring on his finger. He notices he has an inhaler in one of the cup holders. Looking at it gives Richie flashes of a one similar to it, he can’t place where.

The man coughs, “So where do you want me to drop you off?”

 

The thought of detaching from this  _ stranger _ gives Richie a small panic, 

“I was thinking I could buy you dinner—or breakfast, whatever food is happening right now. It’s the least I can do for making you drive around with me.”

 

“The least you can do is make me spend more time with you?” He quips, obviously joking. 

“C’mon, Eds I’m bribing you with food.” He shocks himself with the ease of that nickname. 

“Alright, tell me where I’m going, Tozier.”

He pronounces Richie’s last name with correctly and with ease, a feat as people still said it wrong all the time. He quirked an eyebrow before starting the directions to a 24 hour diner. 

 

Before long they’re seated comfortably in a booth, the few others patrons in there don’t even look up when the two sit down. They’re both poured mugs of warm coffee, but Richie can’t focus on anything but the other man’s face.

 

“So, do you watch me a lot on TV or something?” He blurts suddenly.

Eddie stops stirring his coffee and scoffs, 

“That’s kind of ballsy to ask. Honestly I didn’t even know who you were until I picked you up.”

Richie hums, taps his fingers on the table.

“My last name, how’d ya know my last name?”

“I can see your full name when you request a ride.”

“No, no” Richie’s hands fly up in the air, “Not my last name. How you say my last name, I always have to spell it out to everyone- Richie 

“ _ To-Zi-er,”  _ they said together.

 

“See? How did you know that?”

Eddie looks a little shocked with himself, “I- I don’t know, I’m literate?” He adds sarcastically, but Richie can sense he’s unsure.

He taps his fingers on the table again and shakes his

legs. He rubs his fingers in his hair, frustrated.

It’s itching at him. It’s itching at him and it won’t go away. The more that he looks at Eddie the more he sees the edges of something. He decides to try something.

“Do you mind if I,” he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. 

“Actually I have-“ 

“ _ Asthma _ ” they say in unison and Richie drops the pack onto the seat next to him, disregarding it.  

 

“See? How did I know that?”

Eddie quirks an eyebrow, “You saw me use it and I have it in the cup holder of my car.” 

“No-  _ well- _ yeah- but I knew before then! I could feel it!” He feels like he’s getting closer he has to be. 

Eddie leans in, “Listen, if you’re coked out or something I should probably get you to-“

 

“No, No I’m not. I swear.” He does something funny then, he picks up his right hand and brings his left finger across his palm, miming cutting it. 

He doesn’t know why, but Eddie’s eyes widen and he gulps.

 

“Okay, so what? Do I know you or something?”

 

“I think so, but I can’t place it.” He places his finger on his chin.

 

“What college did you go to?”

 

“NYU.” 

 

Richie scrunches his face, 

“No that’s not it.” 

 

But then he thinks he has it.

The hair, the feisty, quippy attitude. He remembers what Eddie is,  _ his type _ .

“Did you ever come to one of my shows? And we um-“

He pauses, “Got familiar afterwords?”

 

Eddie goes completely red, half anger, half embarrassment.

“Excuse me? I’m not- What the is the matter with you?” 

He stands and Richie does as well, reaching for his arm.

“Listen I know we know each other and I know you’re my type.” He looks him up and down, “Definitely my type.”

 

Eddie’s face goes even redder and he sneers before pulling his arm away and walking out. 

Richie frantically drops a twenty on the table and chases after Eddie who’s already aways down the sidewalk. 

“Eddie!” He calls after him, now running. “Eddie!”

He was never very athletic, but now he ran like his life depended on it.  

He catches up with a fuming Eddie.

 

“Eds, C’mon please it’s driving me crazy. Just please tell me you know what I’m talking about.”

 

Eddie sucks in air, “Fine. You seem familiar. But I am not-“ he looks agitated, “I would never have- “ he can’t find the words. 

Richie puts its aside for a second, 

“Okay fine. It wasn’t that. Just please tell me something about you so I can put it together I know I can.”

Eddie thinks this guy is definitely crazy,  but it’s driving him crazy too. 

“I have a wife.”

Richie nods, “How did you met?”

Eddie looks to the ground, 

“My-“

“Your-“ 

_ “Mother.”  _

Eddie’s face is shell shocked and Richie looks a crazed kind of satisfied,

“See Eds? We’re getting closer.”

Eddie gave him the side eye,

“Don’t call me that?”

“What-“

Eddie looks him right in the eyes and his next words seem to go in slow motion, 

“Don’t call me Eds.”

 

It hit Richie like a ton of fucking bricks.

“Oh my god.”

He grabs at Eddie’s right arm, 

“You broke this arm,” he says frantically.

“You-I-  _ What _ ?” 

“This arm,” he holds on to it tightly, “You broke it and I was there, how did you break it?”

 

“I don’t-“

“Try to remember, please try.”

Eddie holds a hand to his temple, squinting,

“I fell through a table.”

 

Richie nods along, “How?”

 

“S-someone pushed me-“

 

“Who did? Who pushed you?”

He breaths heavily, Richie reaches into Eddie’s pocket, pulls out his inhaler and holds it to his lips.

Eddie puffs it. 

“I don’t- I can’t-“ 

“It’s okay, what happened after that?”

 

“You-“ his eyes go wide “You were there and you- s-s-napped it back into place.”

 

“Where did you grow up, Eds?”

 

He takes a second before they both say it together, 

“ _ Derry, Maine.” _

 

He can see it in Eddie’s face, all the memories flooding back to him, 

“Holy shit-“ he breathes. He pulls Richie in his arms tightly, a familiar hug.

“Richie,” he whispers into his arm. 

 

They spend the next hour walking around the city. It’s dark, it’s dangerous, but now only the good memories are flowing to them. Of the losers, of parties, of their friendship. They babble on and on, wondering how they ever forgot. 

They banter and Richie feels something click into place in his brain.  _ Something is right about this, and something is off about this, _ he thinks. 

He can’t drop his hunch from earlier. 

 

He stops them underneath a tree and grabs Eddie’s hands.

“Eds,” he stares into those doe eyes, searching.

“There’s still something we’re missing.” 

 

“W-What do you mean?”

 

He takes a moment, “I meant what I said earlier, I think we, I-“ He tries hard to shake the memory of lips on his, pink and soft, but he just can’t. He can’t shake the flashy memory of red shorts and sugary gum kisses and passionate words and breaths. 

He breathes deeply, “I think I was in love with you and I think you loved me too.” 

 

Eddie pulls his hands away. “Stop it.” 

He begins to walk away, Richie tailing right after him, “I told you, I’m not-“ he’s breathing frantically again.  _ It’s not asthma.  _ He thinks with sudden clarity,  _ It’s a panic attack _ .

_ He had one on the day they first-  _

Eddie is running away and the sky crackles, thunder claps suddenly. 

He chases after him, stopping him in the street again.

 

“Eddie please-“ he begs, grabbing onto his arm, “Please stop trying to deny it and just think for a second.” 

“No, No, no” he mutters, bringing his inhaler to his lips, Richie smacks it out of his hand.

“It’s bullshit! Remember? You don’t need it!” He shouts.

“Your mom made up your asthma to scare you! She lied to you, Eds. She tried to make you afraid of yourself!”

Eddie’s eyes are wide and horrified, his face is pale. 

 

He holds his stare and holds tightly to his arms, “It’s a panic attack! Eddie you’re having a panic attack! You had one the day we first kissed!” 

 

Rain starts to fall from the sky, 

“Today!” He shouts, “Today was that day!” 

 

“November 4th, 1992,” he says, “It was raining and we went outside and- and I looked at you and told you I loved you, and you-“ 

 

“I kissed you-“ Eddie says, “I-.”  He’s shaking in Richie’s arms, but he frantically brings their lips together with vigor as the rain pours. 

They kiss intensely, like the other is oxygen and they’re suffocating. 

 

Richie pulls away to look him in the eyes, “I love you, Eds, I can’t forget you again.”

Eddie stares deep back, “I love you too.”

He kisses him once more and pulls back. They’re touching their foreheads together and Richie’s hand is on the back of his neck. He can feel tears on his face, some his own, some not.

“I won’t ever forget you again, Richie Tozier.”

 

For the first he can remember, Richie feels better. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> For a fic exchange :) ! tumblr: @coffeekaspbrak


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